Manifold are the cares of wealth and state. Mr Dorrit's
satisfaction in remembering that it had not been necessary for him to announce
himself to Clennam and Co., or to make an allusion to his having had any
knowledge of the intrusive person of that name, had been damped over-night,
while it was still fresh, by a debate that arose within him whether or no he
should take the Marshalsea in his way back, and look at the old gate. He had
decided not to do so; and had astonished the coachman by being very fierce with
him for proposing to go over London Bridge and recross the river by Waterloo
Bridge--a course which would have taken him almost within sight of his old
quarters. Still, for all that, the question had raised a conflict in his breast;
and, for some odd reason or no reason, he was vaguely dissatisfied. Even at the
Merdle dinner- table next day, he was so out of sorts about it that he continued
at intervals to turn it over and over, in a manner frightfully inconsistent with
the good society surrounding him. It made him hot to think what the Chief
Butler's opinion of him would have been, if that illustrious personage could
have plumbed with that heavy eye of his the stream of his meditations.
The farewell banquet was of a gorgeous nature, and wound up his visit in a
most brilliant manner. Fanny combined with the attractions of her youth and
beauty, a certain weight of self- sustainment as if she had been married twenty
years. He felt that he could leave her with a quiet mind to tread the paths of
distinction, and wished--but without abatement of patronage, and without
prejudice to the retiring virtues of his favourite child-- that he had such
another daughter.
'My dear,' he told her at parting, 'our family looks to you to--ha--assert
its dignity and--hum--maintain its importance. I know you will never disappoint
it.'
'No, papa,' said Fanny, 'you may rely upon that, I think. My best love to
dearest Amy, and I will write to her very soon.'
'Shall I convey any message to--ha--anybody else?' asked Mr Dorrit, in an
insinuating manner.
'Papa,' said Fanny, before whom Mrs General instantly loomed, 'no, I thank
you. You are very kind, Pa, but I must beg to be excused. There is no other
message to send, I thank you, dear papa, that it would be at all agreeable to
you to take.'
They parted in an outer drawing-room, where only Mr Sparkler waited on his
lady, and dutifully bided his time for shaking hands. When Mr Sparkler was
admitted to this closing audience, Mr Merdle came creeping in with not much more
appearance of arms in his sleeves than if he had been the twin brother of Miss
Biffin, and insisted on escorting Mr Dorrit down-stairs. All Mr Dorrit's
protestations being in vain, he enjoyed the honour of being accompanied to the
hall-door by this distinguished man, who (as Mr Dorrit told him in shaking hands
on the step) had really overwhelmed him with attentions and services during this
memorable visit. Thus they parted; Mr Dorrit entering his carriage with a
swelling breast, not at all sorry that his Courier, who had come to take leave
in the lower regions, should have an opportunity of beholding the grandeur of
his departure.
The aforesaid grandeur was yet full upon Mr Dorrit when he alighted at his
hotel. Helped out by the Courier and some half-dozen of the hotel servants, he
was passing through the hall with a serene magnificence, when lo! a sight
presented itself that struck him dumb and motionless. John Chivery, in his best
clothes, with his tall hat under his arm, his ivory-handled cane genteelly
embarrassing his deportment, and a bundle of cigars in his hand!
'Now, young man,' said the porter. 'This is the gentleman. This young man has
persisted in waiting, sir, saying you would be glad to see him.'
Mr Dorrit glared on the young man, choked, and said, in the mildest of tones,
'Ah! Young John! It is Young John, I think; is it not?'
'Yes, sir,' returned Young John.
'I--ha--thought it was Young john!' said Mr Dorrit. 'The young man may come
up,' turning to the attendants, as he passed on: 'oh yes, he may come up. Let
Young John follow. I will speak to him above.'
Young John followed, smiling and much gratified. Mr Dorrit's rooms were
reached. Candles were lighted. The attendants withdrew.
'Now, sir,' said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the
collar when they were safely alone. 'What do you mean by this?'
The amazement and horror depicted in the unfortunate john's face-- for he had
rather expected to be embraced next--were of that powerfully expressive nature
that Mr Dorrit withdrew his hand and merely glared at him.
'How dare you do this?' said Mr Dorrit. 'How do you presume to come here? How
dare you insult me?'
'I insult you, sir?' cried Young John. 'Oh!'
'Yes, sir,' returned Mr Dorrit. 'Insult me. Your coming here is an affront,
an impertinence, an audacity. You are not wanted here.
Who sent you here? What--ha--the Devil do you do here?'
'I thought, sir,' said Young John, with as pale and shocked a face as ever
had been turned to Mr Dorrit's in his life--even in his College life: 'I
thought, sir, you mightn't object to have the goodness to accept a bundle--'
'Damn your bundle, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit, in irrepressible rage.
'I--hum--don't smoke.'
'I humbly beg your pardon, sir. You used to.'
'Tell me that again,' cried Mr Dorrit, quite beside himself, 'and I'll take
the poker to you!'
John Chivery backed to the door.
'Stop, sir!' cried Mr Dorrit. 'Stop! Sit down. Confound you,
sit down!'
John Chivery dropped into the chair nearest the door, and Mr Dorrit walked up
and down the room; rapidly at first; then, more slowly. Once, he went to the
window, and stood there with his forehead against the glass. All of a sudden, he
turned and said:
'What else did you come for, Sir?'
'Nothing else in the world, sir. Oh dear me! Only to say, Sir, that I hoped
you was well, and only to ask if Miss Amy was Well?'
'What's that to you, sir?' retorted Mr Dorrit.
'It's nothing to me, sir, by rights. I never thought of lessening the
distance betwixt us, I am sure. I know it's a liberty, sir, but I never thought
you'd have taken it ill. Upon my word and honour, sir,' said Young John, with
emotion, 'in my poor way, I am too proud to have come, I assure you, if I had
thought so.'
Mr Dorrit was ashamed. He went back to the window, and leaned his forehead
against the glass for some time. When he turned, he had his handkerchief in his
hand, and he had been wiping his eyes with it, and he looked tired and ill.
'Young John, I am very sorry to have been hasty with you, but--ha-- some
remembrances are not happy remembrances, and--hum--you shouldn't have come.'
'I feel that now, sir,' returned John Chivery; 'but I didn't before, and
Heaven knows I meant no harm, sir.'
'No. No,' said Mr Dorrit. 'I am--hum--sure of that. Ha. Give me your hand,
Young John, give me your hand.'
Young John gave it; but Mr Dorrit had driven his heart out of it, and nothing
could change his face now, from its white, shocked look.
'There!' said Mr Dorrit, slowly shaking hands with him. 'Sit down again,
Young John.'
'Thank you, sir--but I'd rather stand.'
Mr Dorrit sat down instead. After painfully holding his head a little while,
he turned it to his visitor, and said, with an effort to be easy:
'And how is your father, Young John? How--ha--how are they all, Young John?'
'Thank you, sir, They're all pretty well, sir. They're not any ways
complaining.'
'Hum. You are in your--ha--old business I see, John?' said Mr Dorrit, with a
glance at the offending bundle he had anathematised.
'Partly, sir. I am in my'--John hesitated a little--'father's business
likewise.'
'Oh indeed!' said Mr Dorrit. 'Do you--ha hum--go upon the ha--'
'Lock, sir? Yes, sir.'
'Much to do, John?'
'Yes, sir; we're pretty heavy at present. I don't know how it is, but we
generally ARE pretty heavy.'
'At this time of the year, Young John?'
'Mostly at all times of the year, sir. I don't know the time that makes much
difference to us. I wish you good night, sir.'
'Stay a moment, John--ha--stay a moment. Hum. Leave me the cigars, John,
I--ha--beg.'
'Certainly, sir.' John put them, with a trembling hand, on the table.
'Stay a moment, Young John; stay another moment. It would be a--ha--a
gratification to me to send a little--hum--Testimonial, by such a trusty
messenger, to be divided among--ha hum--them--them-- according to their wants.
Would you object to take
it, John?'
'Not in any ways, sir. There's many of them, I'm sure, that would be the
better for it.'
'Thank you, John. I--ha--I'll write it, John.'
His hand shook so that he was a long time writing it, and wrote it in a
tremulous scrawl at last. It was a cheque for one hundred pounds. He folded it
up, put it in Young john's hand, and pressed the hand in his.
'I hope you'll--ha--overlook--hum--what has passed, John.'
'Don't speak of it, sir, on any accounts. I don't in any ways bear malice,
I'm sure.'
But nothing while John was there could change John's face to its natural
colour and expression, or restore John's natural manner.
'And, John,' said Mr Dorrit, giving his hand a final pressure, and releasing
it, 'I hope we--ha--agree that we have spoken together in confidence; and that
you will abstain, in going out, from saying anything to any one that
might--hum--suggest that--ha--once I--'
'Oh! I assure you, sir,' returned John Chivery, 'in my poor humble way, sir,
I'm too proud and honourable to do it, sir.'
Mr Dorrit was not too proud and honourable to listen at the door that he
might ascertain for himself whether John really went straight out, or lingered
to have any talk with any one. There was no doubt that he went direct out at the
door, and away down the street with a quick step. After remaining alone for an
hour, Mr Dorrit rang for the Courier, who found him with his chair on the
hearth-rug, sitting with his back towards him and his face to the fire. 'You can
take that bundle of cigars to smoke on the journey, if you like,' said Mr
Dorrit, with a careless wave of his hand. 'Ha--brought by--hum--little offering
from--ha--son of old tenant of mine.'
Next morning's sun saw Mr Dorrit's equipage upon the Dover road, where every
red-jacketed postilion was the sign of a cruel house, established for the
unmerciful plundering of travellers. The whole business of the human race,
between London and Dover, being spoliation, Mr Dorrit was waylaid at Dartford,
pillaged at Gravesend, rifled at Rochester, fleeced at Sittingbourne, and sacked
at Canterbury. However, it being the Courier's business to get him out of the
hands of the banditti, the Courier brought him off at every stage; and so the
red-jackets went gleaming merrily along the spring landscape, rising and falling
to a regular measure, between Mr Dorrit in his snug corner and the next chalky
rise in the dusty highway.
Another day's sun saw him at Calais. And having now got the Channel between
himself and John Chivery, he began to feel safe, and to find that the foreign
air was lighter to breathe than the air of England.
On again by the heavy French roads for Paris. Having now quite recovered his
equanimity, Mr Dorrit, in his snug corner, fell to castle-building as he rode
along. It was evident that he had a very large castle in hand. All day long he
was running towers up, taking towers down, adding a wing here, putting on a
battlement there, looking to the walls, strengthening the defences, giving
ornamental touches to the interior, making in all respects a superb castle of
it. His preoccupied face so clearly denoted the pursuit in which he was engaged,
that every cripple at the post-houses, not blind, who shoved his little battered
tin-box in at the carriage window for Charity in the name of Heaven, Charity in
the name of our Lady, Charity in the name of all the Saints, knew as well what
work he was at, as their countryman Le Brun could have known it himself, though
he had made that English traveller the subject of a special physiognomical
treatise.
Arrived at Paris, and resting there three days, Mr Dorrit strolled much about
the streets alone, looking in at the shop-windows, and particularly the
jewellers' windows. Ultimately, he went into the most famous jeweller's, and
said he wanted to buy a little gift for a lady.
It was a charming little woman to whom he said it--a sprightly little woman,
dressed in perfect taste, who came out of a green velvet bower to attend upon
him, from posting up some dainty little books of account which one could hardly
suppose to be ruled for the entry of any articles more commercial than kisses,
at a dainty little shining desk which looked in itself like a sweetmeat.
For example, then, said the little woman, what species of gift did Monsieur
desire? A love-gift?
Mr Dorrit smiled, and said, Eh, well! Perhaps. What did he know? It was
always possible; the sex being so charming. Would she show him some?
Most willingly, said the little woman. Flattered and enchanted to show him
many. But pardon! To begin with, he would have the great goodness to observe
that there were love-gifts, and there were nuptial gifts. For example, these
ravishing ear-rings and this necklace so superb to correspond, were what one
called a love- gift. These brooches and these rings, of a beauty so gracious and
celestial, were what one called, with the permission of Monsieur, nuptial gifts.
Perhaps it would be a good arrangement, Mr Dorrit hinted, smiling, to
purchase both, and to present the love-gift first, and to finish with the
nuptial offering?
Ah Heaven! said the little woman, laying the tips of the fingers of her two
little hands against each other, that would be generous indeed, that would be a
special gallantry! And without doubt the lady so crushed with gifts would find
them irresistible.
Mr Dorrit was not sure of that. But, for example, the sprightly little woman
was very sure of it, she said. So Mr Dorrit bought a gift of each sort, and paid
handsomely for it. As he strolled back to his hotel afterwards, he carried his
head high: having plainly got up his castle now to a much loftier altitude than
the two square towers of Notre Dame.
Building away with all his might, but reserving the plans of his castle
exclusively for his own eye, Mr Dorrit posted away for Marseilles. Building on,
building on, busily, busily, from morning to night. Falling asleep, and leaving
great blocks of building materials dangling in the air; waking again, to resume
work and get them into their places. What time the Courier in the rumble,
smoking Young john's best cigars, left a little thread of thin light smoke
behind--perhaps as he built a castle or two with stray pieces of Mr Dorrit's
money.
Not a fortified town that they passed in all their journey was as strong, not
a Cathedral summit was as high, as Mr Dorrit's castle. Neither the Saone nor the
Rhone sped with the swiftness of that peerless building; nor was the
Mediterranean deeper than its foundations; nor were the distant landscapes on
the Cornice road, nor the hills and bay of Genoa the Superb, more beautiful. Mr
Dorrit and his matchless castle were disembarked among the dirty white houses
and dirtier felons of Civita Vecchia, and thence scrambled on to Rome as they
could, through the filth that festered on the way.
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